


Frustration

by aiwaguru



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:29:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiwaguru/pseuds/aiwaguru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill to <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=188479#t188479">this meme</a>: "It bugged me just a little bit every time Sherlock called John an idiot, or stupid. I'd like to see it begin to get on John's nerves as well, and maybe he snaps, tells Sherlock off, or storms off- and Sherlock has to apologize, which I'm sure would be appropriately awkward and sweet. As long as it ends up fluffy, I'm happy." by anonymous on Sherlock BBC Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frustration

**Author's Note:**

> It went a bit weird as I could not really see John snap, being all man of steel and all (In my head), but he had a reason to be wrung up and all, so it got very long.

 

 

If there was something that Sherlock Holmes did not understand, well, it was certainly emotion.

He did take emotional responses into consideration, of course, because those were facts in the intricacies of this world.

But that didn't mean he could actually be sensitive about it.

The fact is, he knew absurdly well what kind of day John Watson had.

He could tell just by looking at his left foot the number of stupid incidents that his friend had gone through in a strangely unlucky day. (Not that he believes in any sort of luck.)

He could tell John had been awake more than asleep last night due to one especially vivid nightmare.

He would even be curious to know what kind of nightmare it was to terrify and frustrate John so, but again that would mean an insight he was trying not to have, especially on his flatmate.

It was just too distracting.

So he knew it all: John was tired, overly tired, he was probably feeling dirty for being covered in mud, sweat and even a bit of blood, he was coming down with a cold, considering the way his nose would wrinkle a bit at regular intervals (Some people would call that cute, certainly not Sherlock), and his leg was hurting, so much that he was now clasping his walking stick, as if undecided whether to begin using it again or not.

All in all John didn't really look like he wanted to be there, in their living room filled with police officers, trying to make sense of Sherlock's extremely precise hints. (So precise and to the point no one could understand them.)

He didn't want to be there, Sherlock knew, but he still tried to help, for a weird sense of duty towards the police, the country, God, Sherlock wasn't sure, but it annoyed him greatly, so much that when John finally muttered half-heartedly: “Is it the brother?” Sherlock just rose to his whole height and looked at him with a disgusted frown.

“You ARE an idiot, aren't you? Are you even listening to what I just said?” he snapped, making everyone in the room gape. And he turned to them. “You are all useless!”

Everyone stared for a second, everyone but John.

And really, Sherlock would have noticed nothing, since John is more than great at self-control, if it wasn't for that walking stick, how it fell from his friend's grip and thumped on the floor.

It was just that, not a row, not a single word, just that stick, and John humbly picking it up with a pale face.

He used it then, that damn walking stick, to slowly walk to his chair and sit there, determined to be silent for the rest of the night.

For a moment it felt like time had stopped.

Sherlock was distracted by that quite unusual happening, and especially by the dread creeping up inside him, telling him he had done something terrible, horrible, like killing four puppies in a row, but it actually all had to do with the void gaze John was giving the room now.

He almost forgot who the murderer was, and that there was a crime investigation going on.

He was just flabbergasted by the fact that his antics had hurt John today and not any other day...

Why?

It didn't make any sense.

“Sherlock, please, just tell us who it is... stop playing games...” Lestrade came to his side, he didn't notice, no one noticed how John had left the room even though still being there.

“I am not playing games, I am trying to make you understand... it's really quite elementary,” he said, trying to retrieve from his head what he actually wanted to say, the details of this case that had slipped his conscious mind momentarily.

He remembered eventually, he remembered everything, and he explained it, with irony and sarcasm, in his flamboyant way, because he'd be damned if he'd show some sort of weakness, just because his flatmate was being overly dramatic.

If it took him ten minutes less than what he originally calculated it would take him, well, no one had to know that.

Then everyone left (Some would say they were kicked out) to pursue the culprit, and Sherlock and John were alone in the room.

Not that John noticed, he really didn't seem to be there at all.

Sherlock was suddenly at a loss, what was he supposed to say?

He didn't think he was guilty of anything other than being himself, and everyone knew that compared to him they were idiots, it was logical, it was a fact, John had never argued with that.

Why was he upset now?

And most importantly, why did Sherlock care in such a needy way?

He felt a bit of panic creep up on him, like a shiver up his back.

John blinked at some point, realizing too late that everything was over, he looked up to see Sherlock staring at him as if he was a bomb about to burst.

“What?” he snapped, gripping his walking stick tighter. “Don’t you have to chase a criminal? You can go without me. My leg is killing me.”

Why? Wondered Sherlock.  **He** had **cured** his leg, why was it back now?He thought, forgetting he was supposed to reply.

“I am not coming Sherlock,” John insisted, “I am sure it must be quite the shock for you that I don't partake in something dangerous, but I really don't feel like it.”

That made him snap out of his thoughts. “You don't feel like it? You don't FEEL like it? And since when you do things because of some emotion?”

John stood up: “Some EMOTION?” he hissed. “I am not you, Sherlock. I am human, I have feelings... and sometimes they catch up to me. I am sorry I don't have the nerves of steel you think I possess.”

He blinked, confused. “But you do, you do have them. Why not today? Why now?”

The doctor was surprised at that comeback, he blinked and tried to roll his shoulders, tried to relax, before he let himself reply. “I'll have you know... this was a really bad day for me...” he muttered, and Sherlock hated his being mysterious, he knew very well it had been a bad day for John, but it had never stopped him before.

“That's not all... is it? YOU don't usually work like that...” he protested, his brain was working a mile a minute, trying to decipher what was going on with his flat mate.

John's eyes widened. “I don't work like that? And you think you know how I work?” he found himself saying, out of spite more than anything, because he knew very well that Sherlock knew everything about him. Sherlock knew how he would work even when he'd just been dumped, he knew he would not care one bit of being knee deep in dirt.

He knew everything but what he was feeling right now.

“ _I_ know _perfectly well_ how you work. That is why you aren't making any sense now, what is different now? What is going on in your head? It's driving me crazy!” he complained, knowing very well he was acting like a child, an annoying one at best. He had no right to know everything about John, but he wanted to know it nonetheless.

The words took John off guard. It was kind of fascinating seeing Sherlock feeling as frustrated as he always was when he couldn't understand him. Just because for once he couldn't read him?

“Wow, now you know how we little intellects feel in your presence, it's not very nice to be another rat in the cage, is it?” he joked, finally a grin coming to grace his lips.

“Now you are teasing me. What on earth is going on?” Sherlock protested, stomping his foot, not doing much to hide his growing tantrum.

“I am not teasing you...” he pointed out, but then seemed to be thinking about it. “Maybe a bit...” he corrected. “But what goes on in my head is just mine, Sherlock... what I am feeling now is just mine as well... it's a secret you know... I cannot tell you. And it's a good thing that you can't read everything, it's how the world is supposed to work.”

Sherlock frowned, and for a moment John was scared he had just given himself away, saying something seemingly harmless that instead started a chain of logical conclusions in the detective's head. It was always risky to talk to him.

Sherlock was indeed connecting the dots, trying to find the most logical conclusion, but he was still crawling in the dark.

Except for one thing.

“What was your nightmare about?” he asked, and John frowned.

“As I said, it's none of-”

“Oh, don't give me that... I am your flatmate, I am your friend, probably even more than that, I know it was nothing to do with the war, you are used to those dreams, then what was it? What made you so weak today that you couldn't face a string of inconveniences, what made you feel so useless that a comment on my part made you completely insensitive to what was happening?” he asked, even though he was a bit worried that the answer would be _him_ , that he was the one making John feel like that.

It was an irrational fear that he did not understand.

He trusted John, John accepted him.

That wasn't going to change any time soon, right?

“Even more than that?” John replied, his eyes wide.

“Was that all you took from what I said? It was quite a long discourse," Sherlock exclaimed frustrated, realizing too late that he had slipped up, talking about his idea of their relationship, a thought he had never shared with John before. For good reasons nonetheless! He didn't want him to laugh at it. "Don't try to change the subject, it's annoying. What did you dream about?”

“Sherlock, are you saying we are more than friends? Because I didn't get that memo,” he muttered, but he was strangely calm, almost amused.

The damage was done, he realized, and of course Sherlock felt the need to explain this. He didn't like it when people didn't understand and wouldn't give him the information he wanted. “Oh come on. It is plain logic, we spend almost all our free time together! We look out for each other! The only time we panic is when the other is in danger... we always go out and have dinner together... it sounds like a relationship, and it surely feels like one.”

John shook his head, it felt like he was talking to a child now.

Still he could not believe he had been able to aggravate Sherlock Holmes of all people.

He was suddenly feeling better.

“How many relationships have you been in, Sherlock?”

That was a painful point, he noted. Sherlock bit his lip, something he had never really seen him do.

“I KNOW how relationships work, Watson, thank you very much.”

Of course he knew, the detective knew everything, but he didn't **understand** everything.

John sighed, “A relationship is not a collection of dates, it's not even just affection towards each other. It's a commitment, it's taking care of each other, it's giving...” he tried to explain, but he really wasn't good with words.

Sherlock made a face, and John suddenly felt like an asshole.

Even he could read that face, and it said so much.

Sherlock felt he had given him all of that, in his own twisted way, it was just John who hadn't noticed.

“A relationship is also attraction... sexual attraction... it's sex... it's cuddles, comfort,” he tried to protest, that surely hadn't happened, he would have noticed **that**!

And for the love of God, Sherlock Holmes was blushing, he was as red as one could possibly get and it looked ridiculous on him. Adorable, as well, he had to admit.

“As much as I know how sex works... there is something about doing it in person that I can't quite grasp just yet... and I don't really feel like trying with a random stranger, you know,” he shrugged. “It would be stressful and utterly unhygienic.”

“You're missing the point,” John commented, and Sherlock was clearly offended by those words.

He stood a bit straighter, crossing his arms over his chest: “I have thought about you that way, I consider myself curious of venturing that way _if it's with you_... but I also think that this kind of thoughts are highly distracting while we work and I tried to forget about them. Mostly considering your traditional upbringing and the fact you clearly go for the company of women, I deduced you would find my thoughts inappropriate. I did not wish our relationship to be awkward,” he said quickly and his gaze seemed to be challenging John to find a flaw to his logic.

How did things turn out to be this complicated? He should have seen this coming. It was ultimate proof of how feelings just make things absurdly complicated, he had been right at fighting this from the start, that was sure.

John scoffed, but he had to admit he hadn't seen this coming at all.

Of course he had noticed himself becoming attracted to Sherlock's body and not just his intellect, but that didn't mean he ever thought he could be requited, it was kind of ironic, especially to learn about this today, when everything seemed to be going wrong.

“Fine. It was you. I was dreaming about you,” he confessed, and it took quite a lot of courage on his part, or maybe stupidity, that would be how Mycroft would put it.

“Me?” Sherlock was trying to make sense of this, and it always took him a while to understand things when they had something to do with him. “Dreaming of me makes you so grumpy? Is there such dislike between us I haven't noticed?” he asked, his eyes were wavering a bit.

For a moment he doubted himself, he doubted their relationship.

It was such an emotional thing to do, he was going crazy.

“No, it's... not like that...” John felt bad, he didn't like seeing Sherlock so insecure, it was unsettling in many ways, and he knew he could only say the truth then. “I dreamt of you... I dreamt of us... having a real relationship…”

Sherlock was about to say something to that, his eyes bearing a weakness John had never seen.

“No, it is not the idea that upsets me, let me finish for God's sake!”

The detective closed his mouth, irritated, but silent.

“We were together, and then... then... I don't know what really happened, it was confused, but you died... I couldn't protect you... it was **my** fault…” he muttered, his voice lower than he wanted it to be.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and finally he was connecting the dots for the right picture to appear.

“When I woke up, it felt like it had really happened... it was cold... for a moment I really thought it was real, I thought I had lost you… I felt so useless and empty that even when I knew it had been a dream I was too wrung up to face the day...”

And that was the truth, the confession, it said too much, but John felt slightly better for saying it out loud, as if he was finally giving up that dream and living in reality again.

Now he was utterly exposed though.

“Ah,” was Sherlock's only comment.

For a while they were just there, standing a few paces from each other, in awkward silence, and John started feeling so embarrassed he just wanted to flee.

He probably shouldn't have said anything, he knew it was way too much for Sherlock, regardless of what he had said about their 'supposed' relationship.

He gripped his walking stick tight and Sherlock moved his eyes to his hand.

“Would you care for some tea?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.

“Didn't you have to chase a criminal?” John asked back, frowning in confusion.

Maybe they could just forget about it.

“I have never said that. You just assumed,” said Sherlock, who was already walking to the kitchen.

“No, thanks... I think I will just head to bed,” he said, sighing. One thing he was sure of, they could work this out, he trusted Sherlock. He was his only friend after all.

Sherlock stopped in his rummaging through the cups and nodded. “Listen…”

John turned around, looked at him.

“I am sorry,” said Sherlock, a first on his lips, John realized.

“What?” he gaped.

“I am sorry, you know... for calling you an idiot... I... I know you aren't... so I am sorry...” he explained, looking in the opposite direction with such intent that it made it look like he was talking to someone else. “You are not useless.”

John couldn't help, but blush helplessly.

It felt so intimate for some reason.

“It's okay... we... we will talk tomorrow...” he muttered and walked away, overwhelmed by a giddy embarrassment.

“Yes... tomorrow...” muttered the detective, he was still nodding.

Sherlock was one of a kind, that was sure.

 

**

 

It was midnight, wait, 12:01 when John was shaken awake by pale fingers.

“What?” he mumbled, sleepy, his voice broken and low, he was trying hard to adjust his eyes to see again, his body to move again.

And then his heart started beating in his throat, was something wrong? What had happened?

Sherlock was looming over him, but he was calm, his eyes dark, his lips pursed in determination.

“What is it? What happened?” he asked, trying to sit up with his elbows, but Sherlock kept him down with his hands on his shoulders.

He seemed strangely determined.

“It's tomorrow already,” he commented, and it took John a while to understand what he meant.

“You couldn't wait another six hours?” he protested, quite outraged. “I need my sleep, you know.” And he had to wonder what Sherlock wanted to really talk about that couldn't wait.

“You said tomorrow, this is tomorrow,” he answered stubbornly, a pout in his voice.

“What do you want Sherlock?” he snapped. It was just ridiculous.

“It took me a while to understand what I was supposed to do after our conversation, I had to analyze all possibilities, all possible outcomes, the most common and the most rare... and then... at 10:23, it came to me! I knew what the best answer was. Do you know how much it cost me to wait until 'tomorrow'?” he rambled, still keeping John pinned to the bed, he was actually straddling his waist, he realized eventually.

“You could have slept, you know... like any other normal person,” he protested, that seemed like the most sensible thing to do anyway.

Sherlock looked at him as if he was from Mars. “I am not a normal person.”

“Of course.” John grinned, how untactful of him! How silly of him to apply such a label to Sherlock Holmes of all people! “Then what couldn't wait? Why are you so excited?”

The detective beamed. “Just stay still,” he said and before John could protest, he was leaning close and pressing their lips together.

After exactly 16 seconds of softness, Sherlock parted his lips against a sleepy and surprised John, and tentatively moved his tongue into the other man's mouth, and then… well then he completely forgot to count.

He forgot who he was, and nothing existed but the other’s lips and tongue.

John was kissing him back, passionate, and Sherlock was feeling it all like a wave, stronger than him, stronger than his mind.

It was sensory glee, his body and mind were filled with John, with his arms steady around him, with his body warm against him. 

It was the best kiss he had ever had.

Damn those romance writers had it all wrong.

No one could think during a time like this. No one could describe this.

They parted only when they were completely out of breath, and they looked at each other in the dark with an undoubtedly silly smile.

“It took you two hours to come up with this?” breathed John, he was strangely smug.

Sherlock was **not** going to tell him he felt like his world had stopped and started again in these few minutes.

“Shut up.” He decided that was the most logical thing to say as he dived in for another kiss.  

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
